


the seasons have changed

by clayisforgirls



Series: the ice is getting thinner [2]
Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-01
Updated: 2016-06-01
Packaged: 2018-07-11 15:54:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7059352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clayisforgirls/pseuds/clayisforgirls
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three years hasn’t changed a thing.</p><p>Except this time they aren’t sneaking through Wimbledon hand in hand like giddy teenagers. Something <i>has</i> changed. Roger just hasn’t figured out what yet.</p><p> </p><p>Takes place at Wimbledon 2015, where Andy Roddick did commentary for the BBC and said nice things about Roger.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the seasons have changed

Without the crowd, Centre Court is almost too quiet. There’s an eerie calm as he gazes out over the vacant seats and the perfectly manicured grass. Like the calm before the storm, where the air is still and even the quietest sound is amplified. Up here he can hear the slight rustle of the grass, the hum of the electric floodlights, the footsteps out in the corridor. The ones he hopes don’t belong to a security guard.

Because even Roger Federer – seven time Wimbledon champion Roger Federer, he amends it to – would make the news for breaking and entering the hallowed grounds of Wimbledon. He has a key, one that Andy gave him three years ago, but that doesn’t mean the American should have had one in the first place. He’d never questioned where the original was procured from, always just blindly followed Andy as he’d unlocked the gates and slipped past the night guards unnoticed. He’s pretty sure Andy could have had a life in crime if the tennis thing hadn’t worked out, except it had, and that’s why Roger is still finding notes taped to the inside of his very locked locker.

The note had read **2nite usu plce 10.30** and he’d sighed because really Andy, would it have been that hard to use actual words, but he’d slipped the note into his racket bag without a pause. This was their dance. Three years since their last meeting like this – too many since their first – and the smoke and mirror routine was all too easy for Roger. The edge of guilt as he’d kissed Mirka was too easily forgotten, the well oiled lies too easy to roll of his tongue. Three years hasn’t changed a thing.

Except this time they aren’t sneaking through Wimbledon hand in hand like giddy teenagers. Something _has_ changed. Roger just hasn’t figured out what yet.

The footsteps grow ever closer until there’s a warm weight to his left, cotton brushing over his bare skin, and he doesn’t even have to look to know that it’s Andy. There’s always been a spark between them that Roger’s never tried to explain. He’s never wanted to either, never wanted to dwell on what can never be in the past, present or future. What they have – or maybe had, Roger’s not sure – is more than he could have ever hoped for.

“Hey,” Andy says softly, as though he’s trying not to break the silence in tennis’ most famous cathedral. Roger smiles back in return, because he doesn’t know what to say. They’ve never been like this, quiet and unsure, because that’s not the Andy he remembers. That’s not the Andy he knows. Maybe knew.

“Didn’t know if you’d come,” the American carries on, and Roger can’t help but glance at him. Andy’s staring at a point in the distance, very carefully not looking at Roger. “It’s been a while.”

“Two years,” Roger starts, watching Andy for any kind of reaction, “I-“

He stumbles for the words, wants to say _I miss you, it’s not the same anymore_ but that’s never the kind of relationship they’ve had. Definitely not the kind they have now, the kind that’s based on sporadic texts, most of which consist of _good luck_ or _great match_ or the latest tour gossip. He’s never even told Andy he loves him, never even thought about it before the American was almost out of his life and by then it was too late to say what he really felt. Too late to ruin his career, his marriage, his family, for someone who might not even feel the same.

“I’m sorry we haven’t talked more,” he settles on, and waits for the reaction. There isn’t much of one, just a tiny clench to the American’s jaw before he replies, and not for the first time Roger wonders what he wants. Wonders why he’s here.

“Life happens,” Andy says, almost passively, and this is definitely not the Andy he remembers. His Andy – and Roger’s never even thought of him like that before – his Andy would never give up so easily. He can’t do much but nod, because they’ve both been negligent of their friendship and maybe this is it for them. Maybe their relationship is destined to face into obscurity like so many tennis players do. Except it’s never felt like that, to Roger at least. They’ve always been stronger than their losses, stronger than the distance between them.

“I don’t know what to say,” Roger admits, because two years feels so long when they used to see each other every week, text in between, when there was nothing but tennis.

“Me either,” Andy admits, still looking into the distance and never, not once at Roger, “I was kinda hoping that it’d be the same. You know? But it’s not.”

They lapse into silence, stilted and awkward in a way it hasn’t been since before the media tried to make them rivals. Roger isn’t sure there’s anything that he can say to close the distance between them now. Andy’s pressed against his side, skin warm even through his shirt, but he’s never felt further from the American. It’s just a reminder of how much time has passed between them. How much has changed when he can’t think of anything that he wants to say to Andy except the one thing he can’t.

“This was stupid,” he hears Andy mutter under his breath, and before he can say anything Andy’s out of his seat and Roger’s left staring at his back, his shoulders hunched in defeat. There was a time when Roger couldn’t change that, when it hurt even more when he’d been the one to cause it, but they’re not like that anymore and maybe this time he can fix the slope to Andy’s shoulders that he’d never wanted to see again.

He’s out of his seat quickly, taking the stairs two at a time to catch up with the blonde. Doesn’t quite reach him until they’re at the top, almost into the dimly lit corridor, but he reaches out for Andy’s hand and manages to latch onto his wrist instead, the soft cotton unexpected beneath his fingers when he’d been aiming for skin. Neither of them move, Andy looking at a point just over his shoulder, but Roger can see his eyes are dark and when he opens his mouth he’s not sure he wants to hear what Andy has to say. Instead he pushes Andy against the concrete wall and presses their lips together. This isn’t like him at all – it was almost always Andy who was the initiator – but he can’t let this end like this. They can’t get their happy ending in this life – maybe in another when they weren’t Roger Federer and Andy Roddick, maybe if they meet in a coffee shop or a bar or even a fucking airport instead of a tennis court – but Roger needs something to remember Andy by.

And when Andy’s mouth slides back against his, tongue flicking against his lips, he gives in to what he’s been craving since he found that note. It’s easy to lose himself into the heat of Andy’s mouth and the scrape of stubble against his jaw, and it might have been three years since they last did this but it’s as familiar as ever and Roger doesn’t want to let go, his fingers curling into Andy’s shirt as they kiss until they can’t anymore.

Andy’s flushed when he pulls away, pupils more black than hazel, but he’s smiling for the first time this evening, the same lazy grin that Roger’s never been able to say no to.

“Come home with me,” Andy murmurs against his mouth, and Roger can’t do anything but nod and follow Andy’s lead.

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from "The Ice Is Getting Thinner" by Death Cab for Cutie.


End file.
